I glance down at the thin cotton material I’d thrown on after my shower. I didn’t see it as anything special. It’s not the first time I’ve thrown on one of his shirts. It was just something easy to slip into to tell him dinner was ready. But the way he’s looking at me now—like I’m something precious and wild and necessary—makes me feel like I’m wearing the most seductive thing in the world.
His workshop has always been his sanctuary. His place of creation and calm. I’ve watched him in here for hours, his hands steady and sure as they transform raw lumber into something beautiful. But tonight, there’s nothing calm about the way he’slooking at me, nothing steady about the way his hands are gripping my hips.
“I was just coming to tell you dinner’s ready, but I can see you have other things on your mind.” I smile against his lips as his hands slide lower, cupping my ass and lifting me onto the workbench. Wood shavings scatter beneath me, and I should probably care about the mess, but all I can focus on is the heat radiating from his body.
“Dinner can wait,” he growls, stepping between my thighs. His hazel eyes are dark with desire, flecks of gold catching the workshop’s dim light. “I’ve been thinking about you all day and now you’re wearing my shirt, with my name on the back, and you smell so fucking delectable. It’s doing things to me.”
I wrap my legs around his waist, drawing him closer. “In your workshop? That’s dangerous, Haynes. Shouldn’t your mind be on your tools?”
“You are my favorite tool to handle,” he says with that crooked grin that still makes my stomach flip, even after all this time.
I laugh, the sound turning into a gasp as his hands slip under the oversized shirt, fingers tracing patterns up my bare thighs. “That was terrible.”
“You love it,” he murmurs, his lips finding that sensitive spot just below my ear.
And God help me, I do. I love his terrible jokes and his adorable smile and the way his hands create beauty from nothing. I love the earnest intensity in his eyes when he’s focused on a project, the same look he’s giving me now, like I’m the only thing in the universe worth his attention. And I love how he touches me like I’m made of something precious. “I do,” I admit, running my fingers through his hair. “I love everything about you.”
His hands pause on my thighs, and he pulls back justenough to look into my eyes. The intensity I find there steals my breath. “Say that again,” he whispers, his voice rough with emotion.
“I love everything about you, Shepherd Haynes,” I say, cupping his face in my hands. “Even your terrible tool jokes.”
He laughs, the sound vibrating through both of us, and then his mouth is on mine again, hungrier this time. His tongue slides against mine as his hands continue their upward journey, discovering what I think he already suspected.
I’m not wearing anything under his shirt.
“Jesus, Sutton,” he groans when his fingers find bare skin where underwear should be. “You’re killing me.” His eyes darken at the discovery, and I can’t help the smile that curves my lips. There’s something incredibly empowering about driving this man wild with something as simple as the absence of underwear.
“That was entirely unintentional,” I lie, enjoying the way his breath catches when my legs tighten around his waist.
“Bullshit,” he whispers, his fingers tracing tantalizingly close to where I want them most. “You knew exactly what you were doing when you came out here in just my shirt.”
I arch against his touch, my body betraying my words. “Maybe I did.”
His thumb finally brushes where I’m already wet for him, and I gasp, my head falling back. Wood shavings scatter beneath me as I grip the edge of the workbench.
“You’re already primed for me,” he murmurs, his voice thick with desire as he circles that sensitive bundle of nerves with just enough pressure to make my thighs quiver.
“Always,” I breathe, and it’s the truth. Ever since that night in the workshop when I told him my darkest secrets, when he held me and promised me he would always keep me safe I knew I loved him. And now, in the intimate moments between us justlike this, I love how my body responds to him. How the smallest touch from him can undo me so completely.
“Shepherd,” I whimper as his fingers slide inside me, my hips bucking against his hand. The workbench creaks beneath us, and I briefly wonder if it can hold our weight before his thumb circles my clit again and I stop caring about anything except the pressure building inside me.
“I love watching you like this,” he says, his voice rough with desire. “So beautiful. So mine.”
There was a time when those words might have frightened me. The idea of belonging to someone, of being possessed, carried too many dark memories. But with Shepherd, it’s different. Being his doesn’t mean being owned. It means being cherished, protected, and loved.
“Yours,” I agree, pulling him closer for a kiss that’s all heat and promise. “And you’re mine.”
He groans against my mouth as I reach between us to palm him through his jeans. He’s hard and straining against the denim, and I feel a surge of feminine power knowing I’ve affected him this much just by wearing his shirt.
“I want you,” I whisper against his lips. “Now,” I add, giving him a squeeze through his jeans that makes his pupils dilate. “I don’t want to wait.”
Shepherd’s fingers still inside me as he presses his forehead against mine. His breathing is ragged, warm against my face. “Are you sure?” he asks, always checking, always making sure. “Because once I start, I’m not stopping until you’re screaming my name.”
I tug at his belt impatiently. “I’m counting on it.”
That’s all the encouragement he needs. He withdraws his fingers and makes quick work of his belt and zipper while I pull his shirt over my head, leaving me completely naked on hisworkbench. The cool air pebbles my skin, but I’m burning up inside, desperate for him.
“God, look at you,” he breathes, taking me in with reverent eyes. “Sometimes I still can’t believe you’re real.”
